Two Plus Two Equals ?
by Alenida
Summary: This picks up right where the novel left off. What if they were waiting to shoot Winston the instant he loved Big Brother? What if, across the city, the same were happening to Julia?


**Two Plus Two Equals ?**

Disclaimer: Well, I'm not George Orwell, so you know the drill: I don't own _1984._

As Winston gazed with loving reverence at the huge face and its burning dark eyes, he heard, vaguely, a click behind him. The cocking of a shot-gun. _Finally_, he thought with a slight shudder. _Finally they are going to shoot me_.

Halfway across the city, Julia, too, was gazing with intense love at a picture of Big Brother, and behind her, too, was the sound of a gun being cocked. She didn't even hear it, being too engrossed in her final and utter triumph over herself. And then something began to change. From somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind, a voice whispered, _Winston._

Winston's finger in the dust had traced the equation "2 + 2 " and he smiled, preparatory for his ultimate triumph over himself, for his finger to trace the number _5_ in the dust before he, himself, was eradicated forever. Big Brother's dark eyes bored into his--his finger moved--behind him, from another telescreen, O' Brian was smiling, a fierce, triumphant smile utterly unlike the O' Brian Winston had known. Then, suddenly, unbidden, a voice from within him murmured, _Julia_. And Big Brother's features melted away, and he could see her, staring at him, too, not as she had once looked, young and fresh, but infinitely old and weary, with dark pockets under her eyes and streaks of white in her brown hair. Her eyes widened, as did his. There was an explosion from behind both of them. Winston's finger traced a number in the dust.

Somehow, his posture must have changed slightly, for the self-satisfied smile was wiped off O' Brian's face, and he cried, "Wait!" But it was too late. No matter what the human mind may believe, no human agency can possibly stop a bullet after it has been fired, before it encounters resistance. In this case, the only resistance was Winston's back. He slumped over the table, the light gone from his eyes.

The assassin ran over to Winston's body, turned to O' Brien. "What is it, sir?" he exclaimed. "The heretic is dead."

"What's that he's written there in the dust?" cried O' Brian. Somehow, he knew something was wrong.

"Well, sir, it says--" the man bent over it. "Well, sir, it says '2 + 2 4.' Funny time for him to be doing arithmetic, if you ask me."

But O' Brian's face was clouded over with a dark fury. "_How?_" he shrieked. "_How did he do it! That girl--Julia! Is she dead?_"

Yes, she was dead. A spark of light no one could see hovered tentatively above her slumped body. It grew and assumed the shape she had had before it had all happened, before theThought Police had discovered her and Winston. _Winston?_ Julia's spirit called.

_I'm here. I think_. He was, too. Brushing translucent hands through translucent hair, the way he always used to.

_Where are we?_ she asked. She felt bewildered.

_We're dead._ The answer was blunt; she blinked and looked around. They were standing together in the Chestnut Tree Café, next to a limp form that might once have been Winston Smith. _Is that you?_

_Not anymore. Now _this_ is me. We're safe, at last. O' Brian can't do anything more to us. You and I were right--a little._

_But I betrayed you. You betrayed me._

_Not entirely_.

She laughed mirthlessly. _What are you talking about? You would have let me be stripped to the bone by rats--I would have let them break your neck…_

_Yes, but obviously the betrayal cannot have been whole-hearted on either of our parts._

_How do you figure that?_ Winston had always been the idealist, of course, she thought. This seemed more of his idealism.

_My dear girl, do you think we could have conquered O' Brian and the others, even at the very end, without each others' help? I saw you--did you--_

_Yes. I saw you, too._ He was right; suddenly she knew he was right. _Oh, Winston._

She flung her arms around him, and he was there, as solid as he had ever been before. Tears came to her eyes. _Where do we go from here?_

_I don't know._

_Ah. Winston. Julia. Please follow me._

They looked around. Staring at them, eyes smiling behind ghostly spectacles, was the wraith-like figure of Emmanuel Goldstein.

_Where are we going?_

Goldstein waved his hand. _Away. Just--away._

_What about the world?_ It was Winston, of course. Julia had never found the strength to worry about more than her immediate problems.

_It isn't your concern, anymore. At least, not for now._

_What do you mean?_

_Have you ever heard of Guardian Angels?_

Winston shrugged, his arm still around Julia. _Aren't they the people with wings on Christmas cards?_

_Not quite. They are what allowed you to see Julia at your death. It requires an extensive period of training to become one._

Winston straightened, and Julia knew, with a sigh, death hadn't cured him of his idealism; though it had been buried by layers of tortured pain in the human, it was back. _I should very much like that_, Winston ventured.

_Very well. Follow me, you two_. Goldstein smiled again and beckoned. He began to walk away, but suddenly turned as though remembering something. _Oh, and Winston--even in Heaven two plus two equals four._

With a deepening grin on each of their faces, Julia and Winston followed him.


End file.
